Rise of The Abandoned Husband (Liam Knight) novel Chapter 152

152 Chapter 152 – A Rival’s Plot and an Unexpected Olive Branch

The golden rays of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of my hotel room, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. I sat cross–legged on the bed, eyes closed, my breath steady as I channeled energy through my meridians. The ancient cultivation techniques flowed through me like water finding its natural course.

After my confrontation with Desmond yesterday, I knew I needed every advantage I could get. The man’s hatred was palpable, and his humiliation would only fuel his desire for revenge. I couldn’t afford to be unprepared.

Hours passed as I refined my energy, strengthening my core and enhancing my spiritual sense. By midday, sweat beaded on my forehead, but I felt stronger, more centered. The knowledge from my mysterious inheritance continued to amaze me- techniques that had been lost to time now flowed through my mind with perfect clarity.

Across town, in a dimly lit private room of an upscale restaurant, Desmond Davenport nursed a glass of expensive whiskey. His knuckles were white around the crystal tumbler, his face twisted with rage.

“That bastard,” he muttered, draining his glass in one gulp. “Who does he think he is?”

The humiliation from yesterday still burned in his gut. Being outsmarted by Liam Knight in front of the entire association was unacceptable. His reputation, built over decades, was being threatened by this… nobody.

Desmond’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it briefly before standing. It was time.

Twenty minutes later, he entered a nondescript building in the older part of the city. The guard at the door nodded respectfully, opening the heavy wooden door without a word. Desmond descended a narrow staircase into a basement office where a thin man with silver–streaked hair sat behind an ornate desk.

“Mr. Davenport,” the man said without looking up from his papers. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

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152 Chapter 152 A Rival’s Plot and an Unexpected Olive Branch

“Mr. Moore,” Desmond replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I have a situation that requires your… expertise.

Mr. Moore finally looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’m listening”

Desmond placed a small wooden box on the desk. “This is a five–hundred–year–old wild Ganoderma. Worth more than most people carn in a lifetime.”

Mr. Moore’s eyebrows raised slightly as he opened the box, examining the rare medicinal fungus inside. “Impressive. And what would you like in return?”

“There’s a man named Liam Knight, Desmond said, his jaw tight. “He’s participating in tomorrow’s Traditional Medicine Conference finals.”

“You want him killed?” Mr. Moore asked casually, as if discussing the weather.

Desmond hesitated. “No… not killed. That would draw too much attention. I want him incapacitated. Unable to participate. Make it look like an accident or illness.

Mr. Moore closed the box with a soft click. “Consider it done. By tomorrow morning, your problem will no longer be able to compete.”

Desmond allowed himself a small smile. “Perfect”

Late afternoon found me walking down Cloud Street with Elder Harding, who had arrived in town earlier that day. The narrow street was famous for its traditional medicine shops and rare herbs.

“I appreciate the company,” I told the older man as we navigated through the busy crowd. “Your knowledge of herbs is unparalleled.”

Elder Harding chuckled, his wrinkled face creasing further. “Don’t flatter an old man, Liam. We both know your knowledge has already surpassed mine.”

I smiled but said nothing. It was true that my inherited knowledge was vast, but Elder Harding had something equally valuable–decades of practical experience.

We stopped at several shops, but I was disappointed by their offerings. Most items

were common or of mediocre quality, nothing that would help advance my cultivation or medical skills.

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152 Chapter 152 A Rival’s Plot and an Unexpected Olive Branch

“The market isn’t what it used to be,” Elder Harding sighed. “Twenty years ago, you could find treasures on every corner of this street.”

I was about to suggest we try another area when I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. My body tensed immediately.

Alistair Northwood–right–hand man to Julian Hawthorne, one of my earliest enemies in this city. The last time I’d seen him, he was fleeing after I’d humiliated his boss.

Our eyes met across the busy street. I shifted my stance subtly, ready for confrontation. Elder Harding sensed the change in my

demeanor.

“Problem?” he asked quietly.

“Possibly,” I murmured. “That man works for someone who’d like to see me dead.”

To my surprise, instead of retreating or calling for backup, Alistair began walking directly toward me. His expression was neutral, his hands visible and empty–not the approach of someone looking for a fight.

“Mr. Smith,” he called, using the alias I’d gone by when we first met. He stopped a respectful distance away and, to my astonishment, gave a small bow. “Or should I say. Mr. Knight? Your reputation has grown considerably since our last encounter.

I remained silent, watching him carefully.

“I don’t come seeking trouble,” he continued, noticing my wariness. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“What do you want then?” I asked bluntly.

Alistair glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Julian’s influence has waned significantly since your… interaction with him. The power structure in this city is changing

“And?”

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